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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368377">Bluebell Baby</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontTouchMySpaceBuns/pseuds/DontTouchMySpaceBuns'>DontTouchMySpaceBuns</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay Keith (Voltron), Insecure Lance (Voltron), Internalized Homophobia, It's not all sad!!, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Langst, Let's see if I actually finish this lmao, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn, klangst, language I guess, sue me, this is just an excuse for me to wax on about Lance's eyes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:01:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368377</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontTouchMySpaceBuns/pseuds/DontTouchMySpaceBuns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith and Lance were best friends right up until the end of their senior year, when everything fell apart. </p><p>After three years of no contact, Keith wakes at two in the morning to find Lance sitting in his driveway. He urges him to come for a drive—but what starts as a late-night escapade quickly escalates, and Keith is forced to wonder what Lance is really doing here. Things ended badly between them, and Keith isn’t sure they can be so easily fixed.</p><p>AKA Keith and Lance were best friends back in high school. They reunite years later and embark on a lengthy road-trip while Lance navigates his quarter-life crisis, and Keith tries not to fall for him—again—in the process.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Lonely Water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'll post trigger warnings here if any of you are concerned about them. Just gonna say up-front though that this does contain some language and that's probably going to be in every chapter. General angst is also gonna be pretty prevalent. Stay safe, do what's good for you!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Keith’s phone had been on do-not-disturb since the eleventh grade. This was partly due to the inordinate amount of scam calls he always got, but also because Pidge liked to send him obscure, slightly unnerving pictures all throughout the night.</p><p>So when he woke at two-eighteen on the hottest night in July to the sound of his phone ringing, something didn’t click. There were only four numbers on his contact list that he allowed to come through at all times. His brother, Shiro, was one of them, as well as his biological mother. He’d added his work a few months ago after missing an important message.</p><p>Which begged the question: which one of them saw fit to be calling him at <em>this hour?</em></p><p>Half-awake, Keith reached for the phone. He pressed the green button without checking the caller ID and held it up to his ear.</p><p>“What?” He demanded, voice raspy. He hoped to god it wasn’t work, because that would have been a real shitty way to answer his boss.</p><p>“<em>Hey, man! How’s it going?”</em></p><p>Keith blinked. The voice very clearly didn’t belong to his boss, or his brother, <em>or </em>his mother. Whoever it was spoke in a chipper baritone—far <em>too </em>chipper for two-eighteen in the morning.</p><p>“Who is this?” Keith asked.</p><p>Something like a scoff came through on the other end.</p><p>
  <em>“You didn’t save my number? Ouch, buddy.”</em>
</p><p>“I’m gonna hang up now.”</p><p>“<em>Wait, hold on—”</em></p><p>Before Keith could turn off the phone, a car horn blared outside his window. If he wasn’t mistaken, it had come through the speaker, too.</p><p>“<em>Hear that?” </em>The voice was smug. “<em>Come outside.”</em></p><p>“What? Fuck you, no—”</p><p>“<em>I’ve got Oreos.”</em></p><p>And Keith blinked. Oreos… they were his favorite back in high school, until he decided to forego processed sugar as a part of his fitness routine last year. How the hell did this asshole know—</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh, holy shit.</em></p><p>Keith yanked the phone away from his ear, and the screen lit up once again. His gaze fell to the two words emblazoned below a blurry contact photo, a nickname—</p><p>
  <em>Baby Blue.</em>
</p><p>No, that couln’t be right—must have been a mistake—because there was no way this person would be calling him at this hour, or at <em>all.</em> He did a double, triple, quintuple check, but the words remained the same.</p><p>
  <em>Baby Blue.</em>
</p><p>Baby. Fucking. <em>Blue.</em></p><p>And Keith hung up. He tossed his phone aside and shot to his feet, completely awake. He wrestled on a pair of sweats and a loose-fitting tank top before fleeing the room, pulling his hair back haphazardly as he rushed. He found his front door in the dark and tossed it open, wondering all the while if this was actually happening, because it couldn’t be—this <em>had </em>to be a dream.</p><p>But when he stepped out onto the porch and saw the rusty blue pick-up idling in the driveway, his heart skipped a beat, because leaning on the hood was a boy. He wore a cut-off shirt with the words “I FLEXED AND THE SLEEVES FELL OFF” emblazoned in red across the front. A gray beanie sat atop wavy, chocolate locks. His skin was golden, smooth and speckled.</p><p>His eyes—bluebell.</p><p>Keith had to grip the railing for support. There was no way he was seeing this.</p><p>But then the boy smiled, and it became one of those moments where everything felt unfathomably real.</p><p>“Keith!” Exclaimed the one and only Lance McClain, charming and infuriating and dolorous all at once. He pushed off the hood, waving a blue package in the beam of the headlights.</p><p>Keith could do nothing but stare. He was aware of everything—the heat of the night, the feeling of wood beneath his bare toes, the way Lance’s hair curled around his temples—and his knees threatened to give way.</p><p>Lance made it all the way up the porch steps before Keith could stand on his own. He pried his fingers from the railing, forcing them into complacency at his side. It took everything he had just to look up at the boy in front of him, so painfully present. <em>Tangible.</em></p><p>“Uh… Keith?” Lance frowned. He stopped a good four feet away from him, like one of them would explode if the other got to close. It certainly felt that way.</p><p>“It’s two in the morning,” Keith blurted. His voice felt horribly loud.</p><p>Lance blinked. “What?”</p><p>“It’s two in the morning,” Keith repeated, softer this time, “and you drove all the way out here to briing me Oreos?”</p><p>Lance’s cheeks went pink between his freckles. He played it off, letting his gaze flit between the package in his hands and the turbulence behind Keith’s eyes.</p><p>“Well, jeez,” he muttered, “If I had known you didn’t like Oreos anymore, I would have brought you something else.”</p><p>“Lance, that’s not—” Keith sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Well I think that’s pretty fuckin’ obvious. I mean, I’ve got an armful of cookies—”</p><p>“Lance.”</p><p>“What? Can’t a guy just bring another guy snacks in the middle of the night without it being weird?”</p><p>And Keith couldn’t help but reel a bit, because it was such a <em>Lance </em>thing to say. He never thought he’d hear anything like that again, especially not from those soft, dark lips. Blood rushed in his ears. He reached out to grab the railing again, because it was so <em>dizzying, </em>being mere feet from someone who used to mean the world to you—especially when the last time you saw them was your high school graduation.</p><p>But if there was one thing that hadn’t changed in all this time, it was the fact that Keith couldn’t stand it when Lance gave him that kicked-puppy look, so he softened his expression. He allowed a bit of amusement to color his features because this was, after all, kind of hysterical.</p><p>“It is a little weird,” he teased.</p><p>Lance cocked an eyebrow. He held the Oreos up with one hand, taunting. A crooked grin crept across his lips.</p><p>“You’re saying you don’t want these?” He asked. “Because I can eat them myself. You’re not the only one here with a sweet-tooth.”</p><p>“No, I’m not saying that—” now was <em>not </em>the time to mention his diet, “—I’m just wondering why you felt the need to bring them to me… <em>now?”</em></p><p>Now, meaning two-eighteen in the morning, but also three years since they last saw each other. Lance just shrugged, stormy blue eyes alight with mischief.</p><p>“Well, I was hoping to bribe you,” he said simply. “Come for a drive with me.”</p><p>“You… what?”</p><p>“It’ll be fun.”</p><p>And before Keith could protest, Lance spun on his heel and started back for the truck. He made a show of waving the Oreos above his head, trying to lure Keith away like a dog.</p><p>The embarrassing part? It was working.</p><p>Keith, making a split-second decision, rushed back into the house and down the hallway. He retrieved his phone from the nightstand, in the off chance all of this ended up going horribly wrong and he needed to call the cops (because you never knew with Lance), and stumbled back out onto the porch.</p><p>But as he approached the truck, he caught a glimpse of Lance’s face through the windshield. His eyes were downcast, crestfallen—but that could have been the lighting.</p><p>Keith yanked open the passenger-side door, making Lance jump. He watched as Keith clambered in with wide eyes. Keith shut the door and buckled his seatbelt.</p><p>“You… came.” Lance observed dumbly.</p><p>Keith cocked an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah? I was promised Oreos.”</p><p>“…Right.”</p><p>Lance blinked at Keith for a moment longer. He smiled then—not a grin, not a smirk, but a real, <em>genuine </em>smile—and seemed to surprise himself with it, letting it linger on his lips as he pulled out of the driveway. Keith’s heart fluttered again.</p><p>“Where are we going?” He asked, leaning back in his seat.</p><p>Lance took a right at the intersection. “I dunno. I thought we’d just… talk.”</p><p>“Uh, okay.”</p><p>Lance turned onto a busier road, humming along to the faint sound of the radio. It played something bouncy and nostalgic, a song Keith almost recognized. Lance reached across the center console to place the package of Oreos in Keith’s lap. In lieu of explaining his “no-sugar” rule, Keith let them sit there, unopened.</p><p>“So, how’ve you been?” Lance asked, clearing his throat. He kept his eyes on the road.</p><p>Keith shrugged. “Good, mostly. What about you?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m doing awesome. All set to graduate next spring.”</p><p>“That’s great, Lance.”</p><p>“Thanks.” A pause. “You didn’t do the whole college thing, did you?”</p><p>Keith shook his head. “I’m a bartender, downtown.”</p><p>“Hey, that’s cool. Maybe you can teach me how to make margaritas.”</p><p>And the way Lance said it wasn’t judgmental or condescending, like Keith had expected. He spoke like he actually wanted to learn, despite his declaration of temperance in the eleventh grade. Keith wondered if he was still keeping that up.</p><p>He turned and studied Lance for a moment. He hadn’t changed much, but there were a few notable differences. Floral tattoos encircled each forearm in bands just below the crooks of his elbows. He was leaner, more muscular, and probably a couple of inches taller. He was no longer the wiry seventeen-year-old Keith had last seen walking across the stage to retrieve his diploma.</p><p>What else had changed?</p><p>“How did you get my address?” Keith asked.</p><p>Lance grinned. “Pidge told me.”</p><p>“You guys still talk?”</p><p>“Every once in a while. She, Hunk and I go out for lunch sometimes.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. I wanted to invite you, but…” he swallowed. “Pidge didn’t think it would be such a  good idea.”</p><p>Keith pursed his lips. It wouldn’t have been.</p><p>When he looked out the window, he saw they were nearing the highway. He cast a look in Lance’s direction to see if he knew where they were going, but Lance looked as sure as ever. He bobbed his head to the music as if this weren’t the most unusual situation in the world.</p><p>“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing out here?” Keith frowned. “Why you suddenly want to ‘talk?’”</p><p>Lance choked on a laugh. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, smile wavering.</p><p>“I wanted to see you,” he admitted, suddenly mirthless. “You don’t post on Instagram anymore, and I… I wondered.”</p><p>“You still look at my posts?”</p><p>“Yeah. Until you stopped, anyway.”</p><p>“I deleted the app.” Keith narrowed his eyes. “So you just… got the sudden urge to drive to my house in the middle of the night?”</p><p>“Basically.”</p><p>“…Uh huh.”</p><p>“What? I missed you.”</p><p>“It’s been three years.”</p><p>“And I <em>missed </em>you.”</p><p>Keith bit back his irritation. Had the two of them still been in high school, he would have let it escalate until they were both screaming at each other while Shakira played in the background, but they weren’t. Keith was better than that… these days, at least.</p><p>“Okay, so, you missed me,” he huffed, “Do you know where we’re going yet?”</p><p>Lance’s fingers skittered across the steering wheel. Some part of him always had to be moving.</p><p>“Do you remember that little diner we’d always go to after your wrestling matches?” He asked.</p><p>Keith nodded. “Yeah.”</p><p>“I was thinking we could go there and catch up.” Lance paused. “Unless you’d rather go somewhere else.”</p><p>Keith wanted to suggest going <em>home, </em>but something about the way Lance was acting prompted him to stay put. The two of them had been inseparable for most of their high school careers. During that time, Keith had learned to read Lance like a book. He played most of his emotions on his face, where everyone could see, but it was whatever hid behind his eyes that Keith had trained himself to pay attention to. There was something there tonight, and Keith was relieved, in part, to know that Lance hadn’t changed in that regard—but it also worried him.</p><p>Lance was an impulsive person. He was the kind of guy to—quite literally—drag you out of class to pull a prank on a substitute, or drive halfway across town at lunch because he was “really feeling a sushi platter” just then.</p><p>But therein lay the problem. Yes, Lance was impulsive, but he was most unpredictable when he was at his worst. At the end of his rope was affixed a plethora of terrible ideas, and Lance seemed inclined to check them all off whenever things went horribly wrong for him. Showing up at someone’s house at two in the morning for an impromptu breakfast date? Yeah, Keith figured that was one of them—which begged the question:</p><p>
  <em>Why is he really here?</em>
</p><p>“Yeah,” Keith breathed, “yeah, that’s fine.”</p><p>They drove in silence until Lance reached the exit, and they turned off onto a darker road. Lance started humming again, and Keith had the sudden urge to join in. His mind flooded with distant memories, ones of the two of them sitting in the front seat of Lance’s beat-up Honda Accord, shrieking the lyrics to Panic! At The Disco’s <em>I Write Sins Not Tragedies </em>at the top of their lungs. A warmness settled in Keith’s chest, right next to the fatigue and confusion, and he sank back into his seat.</p><p>A minute later, they passed a sign that read: <em>Welcome to Arus, population: 8,300—</em>Lance’s hometown, and where the two of them had gone to school. Keith had moved just a few miles away after graduation, while Lance had gone to college half-a-state over. Pidge had told Keith as much. She’d offered to tell him more, but Keith had stopped her. He wasn’t sure why.</p><p>Not long after they cleared the sign, a small, 24-hour diner came into view. The marquee above the door was lit up in red—<em>Sal’s Diner—</em>and the large windows cast yellow light out onto the parking lot. Keith was hit with more memories: sitting and drinking soda on the curb; eating pancakes at a booth after a loss, burgers after a win.</p><p>Lance parked by the glass double-doors, two spaces away from the only other car in the lot. He killed the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt.</p><p>Keith, amidst the flood of memories, was overcome with a troubling realization.</p><p>“Uh,” he looked down at his feet. “I’m not wearing any shoes.”</p><p>Lance blinked at him. “So?”</p><p>“So, they’re not going to let me in without shoes.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you grab shoes?”</p><p>“You practically <em>kidnapped </em>me, Lance—excuse me for neglecting to grab the proper footwear.”</p><p>“Oh my god,” Lance sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The melancholic haze over his eyes was bridled by amusement, at least for the time being. “Hold on.”</p><p>Lance opened the back door and began rummaging around in the backseat. After a moment, he pulled back, a pair of beat-up sneakers in hand. He tossed them at Keith, who regarded them with disgust after getting a good look at them.</p><p>“These are disgusting,” he deadpanned, holding them up in the light of the diner windows. “I’m not putting them on my feet.”</p><p>“They’re just running shoes, dude,” Lance teased, “don’t be a little bitch about it.”</p><p>“Don’t you have any socks?”</p><p>“You want my dirty, smelly running socks?”</p><p>“I already have your dirty, smelly running shoes.”</p><p>Lance rolled his eyes, but retrieved a pair of socks anyway. They weren’t as bad as he’d described, so Keith felt alright about slipping them on over his bare feet. The shoes were a size-and-a-half too big, so he had to lace them extra tight, but they were otherwise okay.</p><p>“Let’s go,” Lance patted the side of the truck and shut both doors. Keith clambered out onto the asphalt.</p><p>As soon as they entered the diner, Keith was hit with a slew of familiar smells. Waffle-batter, syrup, fries—his stomach growled.</p><p>Lance laughed. “Someone’s hungry.”</p><p>“Where are we sitting?” Keith asked, ignoring him. He scanned the diner, only to find that nearly every seat was empty. The only other occupant sat at the far end, slowly stirring his coffee.</p><p>Lance led them over to a booth beneath a large window and took a seat. Keith sat across from him, feeling too big and too small all at once. He watched as Lance began fiddling with the syrup containers.</p><p>A waitress came by and took their orders. Lance asked for a burger, Keith for waffles. It surprised Keith that Lance didn’t even try to flirt with her. She was definitely attractive; tall, blonde. Maybe he’d grown out of that.</p><p>She left, and Lance returned his attention to Keith. He kept one hand on the maple syrup, popping the lid every few seconds. In this light, Keith could make out the familiar smattering of freckles across his nose. A number came to him, distantly: <em>27.</em> But no, that wasn’t right anymore—he was sure they’d multiplied—or maybe he just counted wrong the first time.</p><p>“So, what are you majoring in?” Keith asked, diverting his gaze.</p><p>“Marine science,” Lance replied, puffing out his chest a bit. “I’m working at an aquarium in the meantime.”</p><p>“That sounds like you.”</p><p>“Yeah. I bounced around a little bit at first, but this just… felt right, you know?” Lance set the syrup jar down. “What about you? Do you like bartending?”</p><p>Keith shrugged. “Yeah, it’s not bad. I make good tips.”</p><p>“I bet you do, with arms like those.”</p><p>Lance winked, and Keith visibly sputtered. That—that was <em>not </em>something high-school Lance would have said. Was that—<em>did he just—</em></p><p>But Lance just went right back to fiddling with the syrup, like he hadn’t just <em>slaughtered </em>Keith with a single compliment. Keith’s heart immediately took to practicing acrobatics in his chest cavity.</p><p><em>No, no, stop that, </em>he ordered it, pressing a furtive hand over his shirt. Lance was just kidding. He never seriously flirted with guys. That much—Keith was sure—would never change.</p><p>“How’s Shiro?” Lance asked after a moment.</p><p>“He’s good,” Keith replied, grateful for the change in subject. “He and Adam just bought a house. They’re looking at adopting, actually.”</p><p>Lance’s entire face went soft, and Keith would be lying if he said he didn’t find it endearing. “Oh my god, they’re gonna be such good dads.”</p><p>“A pet, Lance. They’re looking at adopting a <em>dog.”</em></p><p>“Wha—okay, that was mean,” Lance pointed the syrup at him, accusing. “You can’t just say ‘adopting’ and expect me to think—<em>ugh.”</em></p><p>He buried his head in his hands, and Keith had to laugh.</p><p>“They’ve only been married a year, Lance,” he chided, “let them breathe.”</p><p>“Gah, I know, just—you have to let me know when it happens, okay? Nadia and Silvio are all grown up and they’re not cute anymore.”</p><p>“Don’t let them hear you say that, you’ll lose the ‘favorite uncle’ moniker.”</p><p>“I’ve already lost it, man. Thirteen-year-olds are too chalk-full of hormones to recognize genuine <em>cool.”</em></p><p>“I don’t know, Lance, maybe they just wisened up enough to realize that your bribes are just that—<em>bribes.”</em> Keith teased, referring to all the times Lance had come home with bagfuls of candy in an attempt to manipulate his way into the favor of his niece and nephew.</p><p>Lance just snorted, pointing out the window to where Keith’s Oreos rested on the passenger seat of his truck.</p><p>“It worked on you, didn’t it?” He said.</p><p>“That’s different.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>The waitress returned with their food before Keith could plead his case. She set Keith’s waffles down in front of him, piled high with strawberries and whipped cream, before handing Lance his plate of burgers. Lance eyed them like a man starved, and Keith made sure to thank the waitress <em>extra </em>loud just to make sure Lance was paying enough attention to do the same. He did, and the waitress sauntered off again.</p><p>“Come to <em>papi,” </em>Lance grinned, lifting a burger to his lips. He took a bite and let out a gratuitous, vaguely sexual noise that Keith was quick to <em>shush.</em></p><p>“When was the last time you ate?” Keith asked, astonished.</p><p>“Few hours ago,” Lance replied around a mouthful of burger.</p><p>Keith had forgotten that Lance didn’t need to be hungry to eat.</p><p>As he turned his attention to his own food—which was, admittedly, good enough to moan about, too—he tuned into the song playing over the speakers. It was the same trashy, 2000’s pop they used to play, and Keith found himself basking in the nostalgia. If he squinted, he could almost see his friends and teammates all around him, laughing as they enjoyed the high of a recent victory, or pretended to enjoy a loss. He could imagine James Griffin, one of the more experienced wrestlers in his grade, clapping him on the shoulder to tell him he “killed it out there”, or Ryan Kinkade shooting him that silent nod of approval. Pidge always sat across from him, pulling up pictures from the match on her phone, while Hunk perused the menu for something he hadn’t tried yet.</p><p>And then there was Lance, of course. Keith could almost feel the countless evenings they spent smushed up against one another by the confines of the booth, shoulders bumping as they ate and laughed and talked. Lance would always smile and congratulate him—or console him, depending—and offer to pay whenever he forgot his wallet, which was more often than not after a match. Keith sometimes wondered how much he still owed him for that.</p><p>He was about to ask, but the look on current Lance’s face brough him stumbling back into the present. It was distant, a little wistful. He caught the beginnings of a frown on his lips, and was overcome with the ancient urge to do something about it. It was almost painful to think that it wasn’t his responsibility to do that anymore—that they were practically strangers now.</p><p>Unfortunately, Lance seemed to pick up on the mood-shift.</p><p>“This is weird, isn’t it?” Lance huffed a laugh. He poked at one of the burgers on his plate. “I didn’t mean for it to be weird.”</p><p>“It’s… yeah. A little,” Keith amended, “But I think it’s fine.”</p><p>“You don’t care that I woke you up at two in the morning to hang out with me?”</p><p>“Of course I care, but I’m not… I’m not mad, I don’t think.”</p><p>“You don’t think?”</p><p>“I’m not.” Because he wasn’t, and it was actually kind of nice to be sitting here with Lance again. Sure, he kind of hurt to look at, but it was a familiar sort of ache.</p><p>Lance nodded. “Okay.”</p><p>“Tell me about college.”</p><p>Lance’s face brightened. He started in on a story about his astronomy class from last year because he knew Keith was interested in that kind of thing, and Keith listened. He followed the gestures Lance made with his hands, noting the way they’d become less dramatic over time. He always told stories that way, with all of him—and Keith kind of missed it.</p><p>“—but he took us all out on the roof one night and, like, an hour in, we start hearing these really <em>obscene </em>noises from one end, right? And all of us slowly turn our heads to see Lisa and Alec getting it on. Like, in the middle of a lesson.” Lance laughed, cringing. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever saw them in class after that.”</p><p>Keith laughed, too. “Yikes.”</p><p>“Yeah. It reminded me of that time Iverson caught James and Nessa in the supply closet. Do you remember that?”</p><p>“Unfortunately.”</p><p>“He was red for, like, a week.” Lance smiled fondly at the memory. “Uh, anyway, you got any fun stories from the bar?”</p><p>Boy <em>did </em>he. Keith thought for a moment before deciding on the most recent.</p><p>“I broke up a barfight the other day,” he said.</p><p>Lance’s eyes bugged. “No way! What happened?”</p><p>“…I broke up a barfight.”</p><p>“No <em>shit,</em> Dwight—what started it?”</p><p>And Keith was forced to recall every petty detail, because Lance would settle for no less. Lance sat forward in his seat, chin resting atop the backs of clasped fingers. His half-eaten meal sat to the side, forgotten, until Keith finished.</p><p>“Man, I wish I was there,” Lance pouted, dragging a hand down his face in exaggerated agony.</p><p>Keith just shrugged. “It happens every once in a while.”</p><p>“How do you handle the drama?”</p><p>“I’ve had lots of practice,” he gave Lance a pointed look.</p><p>“<em>Ouch, </em>buddy.”</p><p>But Lance was smiling.</p><p>Keith recounted a few more experiences from work, and Lance ate it up. He was a better listener than anyone gave him credit for—Keith had always thought that—but it was, admittedly, a bit hard to focus on storytelling after Lance’s eyes took on that brilliant, soulful quality. He had a way of making you feel like the only person in the world when you spoke to him, like Fitzgerald’s Daisy. His eyes, a spring tide—pulling you in.</p><p>
  <em>Just so he can spit you back out again.</em>
</p><p>The thought struck Keith so suddenly and with such animosity that his voice faltered. Where did that come from? Things had been going so well…</p><p>“…Keith?” Lance prompted, poking him across the table with a fry. “You good, man?”</p><p>Keith shook his head. “Yeah.”</p><p>He continued, but the rest of his story took on a tristful pallor. Memories swirled in the back of his mind—</p><p>—all the unpleasant ones.</p><p>***</p><p>The boys left the diner nearly half-an-hour later on a much higher note. Lance laughed and tossed an arm over Keith’s shoulders, like they were seventeen again and the world was small.</p><p>“I forgot how <em>funny </em>you are, Mullet,” Lance smiled, opening the passenger-side door for him.</p><p>“You didn’t, you just let yourself believe you were funnier to protect your self-esteem.” Keith replied, poking Lance in the side and making him yelp.</p><p>“I take you out for a nice dinner, and this is how you repay me?”</p><p>“First of all, ‘nice?’ Second of all, ‘dinner?’” Keith showed him the time on his phone, which very clearly read 3:58am.</p><p>“Ingrate,” Lance muttered, swatting the phone away. “Get in the truck.”</p><p>Chuckling, Keith obliged. Lance shut the door behind him before heading back around to the driver’s seat.</p><p>They pulled out of the lot. Keith let his forehead rest against the cool glass, watching the streetlights pass overhead. He felt the time in his bones.</p><p>“What happened to your Accord?” He asked, in an attempt to stay present.</p><p>“Had to sell her,” Lance replied, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “But Ol’ Blue here does the trick. She sputters sometimes, but don’t we all?”</p><p>“Mm hm.”</p><p>Keith felt his eyelids drooping.</p><p>“Lance?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Dinner was nice.”</p><p>“I thought you said it wasn’t dinner.”</p><p>“I’m trying to say thank you, asshole.”</p><p>Lance chuckled. “Sure thing, buddy.”</p><p>And the two of them fell into a congenial quiet. Lance turned on the radio to wash it away, humming along. Keith let his eyes flutter shut.</p><p>That was his first mistake. The second?</p><p>Not telling Lance to take him home.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Song: Hold Back the River - James Bay</p><p>~DontTouchMySpaceBuns~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Pardon My Emotions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Keith wakes up and makes some questionable decisions.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: verbal fighting, Lance has a bit of a breakdown, accidental kidnapping?? Not sure if I had to mention that but I figured I would.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“You’re the new kid, right?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The girl was short—shorter than Keith, and that was saying something. Her hair reached to just below her chin, choppy and unkempt. Two enormous glass circlets sat on either side of her nose.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Uh, yeah,” Keith frowned. He kept his eyes trained on the lunch tray before him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Despite his indifference, the girl soldiered on. “I’m Katie, but everyone calls me Pidge.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Keith couldn’t resist asking why.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s a long story,” she replied, waving him off.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She introduced the boy to her left as Hunk. He was four times her size, with dark skin and a friendly smile. Keith greeted him softly, but surely.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And this is Lance,” Pidge gestured at the boy to her right.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That was the moment Keith’s entire world turned upside down, and he didn’t even know it. He looked up at the golden boy, thinking offhandedly that he’d never met anybody with eyes fit to swim in before today. Lance had a toothpaste-commercial smile and enough freckles to replace the stars.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And Keith would have liked him right away—if only he hadn’t opened that pretty mouth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The eighties called,” Lance grinned. “It wants its hair back.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pidge socked him in the arm, and the four of them spent the next two-and-a-half years eating lunch together.</em>
</p><p>***</p><p>Keith woke to sputtering and clanking. If that wasn’t alarming enough, someone to his left had taken to uttering a vapid medley of Spanish and English curses. He felt a rumbling beneath his seat, and a thick sheen of sweat on his skin.</p><p>“<em>Mierda—</em>shit, fuck!”</p><p>
  <em>Where am I?</em>
</p><p>Groggily, he took a look around. He was in the passenger seat of a car—a familiar car—and every inch of him <em>burned.</em> It had to be a trillion degrees in here, holy hell—</p><p>And who was that beside him? He craned his head to take a look.</p><p>Lance. Lance was in the driver’s seat.</p><p>Keith was <em>still </em>in his truck.</p><p>“Come on, come on, <em>come on,”</em> Lance pleaded, smacking his hands against the steering wheel. The truck slowed, still sputtering. “<em>Hijo de puta—</em>don’t do this to me, Blue!”</p><p>They came to a stop on the side of the road.</p><p>Lance swore again, giving the steering wheel one final blow before resting his forehead on a set of knuckles. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck. For a moment, he sat completely still.</p><p>It was then that he noticed Keith watching him.</p><p>“Keith!” He shot up in his seat, cheeks aflame. “I—you’re awake!”</p><p>Keith didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to make sense of where he was and how he ended up there, because he was pretty damn sure they hadn’t been in the desert when he fell asleep. The time on the dash read 9:42am.</p><p>Keith’s eyes went wide as saucers.</p><p>“So, uh, looks like Blue copped out.” Lance chuckled nervously from the driver’s seat. “We might need to—”</p><p>“Where are we?” Keith demanded.</p><p>Lance looked like he’d just been caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar. “Uh, in my truck.”</p><p>“Lance, I swear to <em>god—”</em></p><p>“Okay, okay!” Lance squeaked, waving his hands. “You have to promise not to get mad.”</p><p>Keith was already mad. “Fine.”</p><p>“Uh, we’re kind of in… Arizona… right now…”</p><p>Which wouldn’t have been so utterly jarring if Keith hadn’t fallen asleep in <em>New Mexico.</em></p><p>He was out the door before Lance could protest. He stumbled out into the relentless heat, trying to make sure he was really seeing this.</p><p>But Lance wasn’t lying. There was no way this could be anywhere but Arizona. Lance’s truck was parked on the edge of a thin, never-ending stretch of road. Barren desert sprawled for miles in any given direction. The sun beat down like it had something to prove.</p><p>And Keith wanted to vomit.</p><p>Lance hopped out of the truck. He rushed over to Keith, already sputtering.</p><p>“Keith, let me explain—”</p><p>But Keith was a little too close to tearing him a new <em>asshole </em>to let him finish.</p><p>“What the <em>fuck, </em>Lance?” Keith exclaimed, gesturing widely. “How are we in Arizona right now?”</p><p>“Please calm down, I just—”</p><p>“<em>Calm down? </em>You <em>kidnapped </em>me, Lance!”</p><p>“You said you weren’t going to get mad!” Lance protested. “I was going on an impromptu road trip and I was going to <em>ask </em>if you wanted to come with, but then you fell asleep and I—I panicked—”</p><p>“When people panic, they scream or cry! They don’t hightail it to <em>Arizona!”</em></p><p>“I’m sorry!”</p><p>“Oh, because <em>that </em>makes everything okay—take me home, Lance!”</p><p>“I can’t!”</p><p>And Keith remembered with resounding dread why he’d woken up in the first place. Lance’s truck reposed beside him, a dead beast in the heat. Keith could do nothing but gape, because his brain was in a persistent state of incomprehension (it being the ass-crack of dawn, after all).</p><p>“I can’t fucking believe this.” He muttered. “I’m actually stranded. Out here. With you.” A wry laugh pushed past his lips. “And we can’t even turn around! Oh my god. This is—this is just <em>perfect.</em>”</p><p>He groaned, letting his forehead thump against the side of the truck—only to jerk it backwards with a yelp. A hand flew to his face, where his forehead burned. He’d neglected to remember that trucks were made out of <em>metal, </em>and that they’d been driving in the hot sun for hours.</p><p>Lance had the nerve to snort. He covered his mouth almost immediately, eyes blown wide as Keith’s head whipped around to shoot him the most brutal look in his arsenal. <em>None </em>of this was funny.</p><p>“Fuck you!” Keith growled, and spun on his heel. He started back the way they came.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Lance called after him, jogging to keep up.</p><p>Keith ignored him dutifully. He didn’t trust himself to speak without shouting.</p><p>“Keith, come on!” Lance carped. “You’re gonna burn up.”</p><p>“I’d rather die of heatstroke than get back in that truck.”</p><p>“There’s not another town for miles.”</p><p>Keith cast him a withering look over his shoulder. “And whose fault is that?”</p><p>Lance frowned, but kept on coming. “I’ll call a tow truck.”</p><p>“Good for you.”</p><p>“You’re being ridiculous!”</p><p>Lance caught up and placed himself in front of Keith. Keith tried to sidestep, but Lance met him move for move, arms folded. Keith fought the urge to scream.</p><p>“Look, I’m sorry I carted you all the way out here, okay?” Lance huffed. “You’re mad, I get it, but we should stay here and wait for help.”</p><p>“Not with you,” Keith growled.</p><p>Lance rolled his eyes. “We can stay on opposite sides of Blue. Hell, I won’t even look at you, if that’s what you want. Just… you should really come back to the truck. I don’t want to find your charred corpse on the side of the road on my way out of here.”</p><p>And Keith wanted to argue—wanted to spit every scathing, Lance-specific insult he’d been holding back since sophomore year—but then he looked Lance in the eyes, and his resolve crumbled. If there was one thing he hated about that boy, it was how he managed to make molehills out of mountains. He acted like this was no big deal—like “unintentionally” abducting Keith was just another Thursday.</p><p>But if there was another thing he hated, it was the effect Lance had on him. Keith could feel his anger ebbing by the second. He scrambled to hold onto it, because he knew he should, but the longer he stood here, the harder it got.</p><p>So he spun on his heel while he was still angry enough to be considered rational, and stalked back towards the truck. He sat in Blue’s shadow, scooting off the asphalt before he could burn his ass, too.</p><p>Lance, true to his word, made his way over to the easternmost side of the truck. Keith watched as he pulled out his phone, presumably to dial for help, before disappearing behind Blue’s fender.</p><p>Keith buried his head in his hands.</p><p>
  <em>I can’t believe this.</em>
</p><p>He rolled up his sweatpants to just below his knees. He still wore Lance’s filthy sneakers, but he couldn’t justify taking them off when the alternative was walking barefoot on the feverish asphalt. He pulled his hair out of the messy ponytail it’d been in and redid it, hating how stringy it felt. God, and he reeked—a shower would fix the vast majority of his problems right now… save for being stranded in Arizona, of course.</p><p>And that was one more thing for him to be angry about, because Lance—the classless <em>bastard—</em>still looked fine. Sure, he was sweaty and his hair stuck up in a million different places, but Keith would never understand how someone so beautiful could be so fucking annoying.</p><p>No, not annoying—he promised he’d never call him that. “Infuriating” was better.</p><p>Keith’s emotions roiled as he pulled out his own phone. The screen lit up with a dozen missed calls and texts, most of which were from Shiro. They were supposed to go to the gym together this morning.</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>are you home</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>I’m outside</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>Keith??? Are you awake???</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>alive?? How about alive???</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>Keith, you’re freaking me out</p><p>
  <strong>(3 missed calls)</strong>
</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>Keith</p><p>
  <strong>(1 missed call)</strong>
</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>KEITH</p><p>Keith sighed. Someone should know where he was.</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>sorry, I’m ok. Something came up</p><p>The response was almost immediate.</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>Oh thank god I thought you were kidnapped</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>Where are you</p><p>And okay, it was kind of tempting to hit him with the <em>I kind of was,</em> but Keith was all-too aware of Shiro’s tendency to overreact. He didn’t want to freak him out.</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>Arizona</p><p>Failed step one.</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>ARIZONA???</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>you’re messing with me, aren’t you</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>you’re trying to make my fragile, doting big brother heart give out</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>this is not funny</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>I’m safe, don’t worry</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>I’m with Lance actually</p><p>Shiro didn’t respond for almost three minutes. Keith spent them with his head on his knees, glaring out at the miles of desert between him and someplace—<em>anyplace—</em>that made sense.</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>I’m trying really, really hard to wrap my head around this</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>Lance?? Lance McClain???</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>yeah</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>…do I want to know?</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>It’s a long story</p><p>Shiro asked a few more questions. When they left, why they did—but Keith was still lost on the latter. None of this was clicking, but he was still too angry to ask.</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>have you two talked about what happened?</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>wdym</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>before graduation</p><p>Keith’s blood sizzled. Of course they hadn’t. He’d have to pry that conversation out of Lance’s cold, dead hands, and that was if they ever escaped Arizona.</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>I have to go</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>you should talk to him</p><p><strong>Shiro: </strong>It could be good for both of you</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>bye Shiro</p><p>Keith turned the phone off. He told himself it was to conserve energy, and not because he’d rather slam his balls in a car door than discuss this with his brother.</p><p>He closed his eyes, swallowed, and felt the dryness in his throat. Water was another factor. They wouldn’t last long without it in this heat.</p><p>He crossed to the driver’s side and yanked the back door open, thinking there must be something in the truck. He picked up Lance’s distant phone-chatter over by the bed, but chose to ignore it.</p><p>By some miracle of god, the backseat yielded half-a-case of bottled water. Keith reached for it without asking, thinking that Lance owed him at least this much, and freed a bottle. He drank like a man stranded—because he fucking <em>was—</em>before forcing himself to stop. He wasn’t sure if this counted as a survival situation or not, but he thought it best to conserve what they had until help was on the way.</p><p>Speaking of which…</p><p>“—three hours?” Lance’s voice carried from behind the truck, loud and bristling. “We’re cooking out here, man!” A pause. “No, no I think we have water—”</p><p>He appeared suddenly beside the back wheel, and Keith froze. Lance stared at him, mouth ajar  in the midst of a thought. Keith, rather awkwardly, raised the bottle of water in his hand and shook it, a clear indication that Lance, for once, was right.</p><p>“Yeah, no, we do.” Lance said into the phone, and disappeared back behind the truck.</p><p>Keith groaned, stopping just short of smacking his forehead against the truck again.</p><p>If the heat didn’t kill him, Lance certainly would. He was sure of it.</p><p>***</p><p>Nearly half-an-hour passed before either of them saw each other again. Keith had taken up residence in the truck’s rapidly dwindling shadow, while Lance had parked himself in the backseat with all the windows open. If Keith focused, he could hear the faint music from Lance’s phone.</p><p>From what Keith gathered after eavesdropping on Lance’s phone call, the tow would be here around twelve-thirty. That meant two-and-a-half more hours of this awkward silent-treatment, and who knew how much longer after they got back to town. Keith, at this point, was entirely inclined to keep it up until he died—</p><p>--until he heard the truck door open.</p><p>Keith forced himself not to move as Lance’s footsteps approached, pouting into the crook of his elbow. He didn’t even look up when a figure blocked out the sun.</p><p>“Can we talk?” Lance asked, hesitant.</p><p>Keith just shrugged.</p><p>Lance sat next to him in the shade. He’d removed his shirt, bronze skin glistening with sweat. Keith had to actively remind himself that yes, Lance was pretty, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d dragged him a whole state westward without his consent.</p><p>“I, um…” Lance ran a hand back through his hair, making it stick up in all the wrong places. “I’m sorry. For dragging you out here, I mean. I know there are probably a million other things you’d rather be doing right now.”</p><p>Keith, holding back a “<em>no shit, Sherlock”,</em> finally worked up the nerve to look him in the eye.</p><p>“Why did you do it?” He asked.</p><p>Lance sighed. He fidgeted with one of the bracelets on his wrist—from his nephew, no doubt—and trained his eyes on the asphalt. Something sullen took up the space behind his eyes; Keith was painfully familiar with the sight.</p><p>“Things haven’t been that great, lately. For me.” Lance admitted, “Something happened the other day, and I… I needed to get away. It’s been a while since I saw the ocean, so I thought, ‘what the hell?’ And you were on the way. I thought you… I thought it would be nice to see you again. I thought you might want to come with me, even though we had that… fight… at the end of our senior year.” He cleared his throat. “I was going to ask you when we got back to your house, but then I got scared that you were going to say no.”</p><p>Keith felt himself growing angry again. “So you dragged me out here anyway?”</p><p>Lance shook his head. “I didn’t mean to. I thought you’d wake up a lot sooner than you did, and we could talk about it then, but…” he sniffed. “I’m an idiot. I know that.”</p><p>“Lance,” Keith sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not an idiot.”</p><p>“I don’t need your pity, Keith.” Lance made a frustrated noise, pressing his palms to both eyes. They were wet when he pulled them away. “I’m trying to explain.” He took a deep breath, drawing his knees up. “It’s just… I’m a mess right now. Nothing makes sense. Everything feels wrong, and I—” he swallowed hard, “—you’re the only thing that ever felt right.”</p><p>Keith’s heart split right down the middle. All the staples and stitches holding it together fell away at once, leaving him open—<em>vulnerable.</em> He could feel something blue settling in the cracks.</p><p>“Lance…” he whispered, easier to miss than smoke in the wind. He reached out to curl his fingers around Lance’s, prying them away from where they dug into golden skin. He couldn’t remember the last time they touched like this.</p><p>“God, I… I don’t know why I’m crying.” Lance took a shaky breath. “But I’m not doing it so you won’t be mad, because you can be. You <em>should </em>be.”</p><p>Keith snorted, despite himself. “Don’t tell me what to do.”</p><p>And then his arms were draped over Lance’s shoulders. They drew each other close, hating the heat but craving the proximity. They fit together like puzzle pieces; not because they were made that way, but because they had learned each other so thoroughly over the years that they knew exactly how to complete the picture.</p><p>Keith wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Lance trembled for a bit, crying softly into Keith’s shoulder. Keith held fast, unwilling to ever let him go—until Lance pulled away, and he had to let it happen.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Lance said again, before Keith could stop him. “You’re not missing work right now, are you?”</p><p>Keith shook his head. “My shift starts at eight.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Lance wiped the remaining tears from his face. He made a gagging noise, like he couldn’t believe he’d let himself break down like that. Keith bit his lip to keep from reassuring him.</p><p>“I don’t know how you put up with me,” Lance huffed a laugh.</p><p>Keith bumped his shoulder, smiling softly. “I’m used to it.”</p><p>“Right,” Lance sighed, “well, there’s still a whole package of Oreos in the truck. Whaddya say we dig in before they melt?”</p><p>Not entirely sure Oreos were capable of melting, Keith obliged—because <em>fuck </em>his diet.</p><p>***</p><p>By noon, the boys found themselves in a tiny roadside town, huddled together beneath the AC in an auto shop waiting room. A couple of mechanics had taken Blue into the garage before giving Lance a diagnosis.</p><p>“Home by eight?” Keith had asked when he returned to the waiting room.</p><p>“Home by eight,” Lance confirmed.</p><p>Despite desperately wanting to make the night’s shift, Keith’s stomach had twisted at the admission. It felt like an ending—an early one.</p><p>He studied Lance now, leaning against the wall beneath fluorescent lights. Getting out of the sun and back into Keith’s good graces had done him a world of good. He’d put his shirt back on, and combed his hair back into something resembling submission. His eyes were bright. A little melancholic, but the sullen thing behind them seemed to have fled for the time being. Keith did not mourn its absence.</p><p>Still, a question nipped at the back of his mind.</p><p>“You said earlier that something happened,” he said, causing Lance to quirk an eyebrow in his direction. “Something that made you want to leave.”</p><p>Lance frowned, but nodded.</p><p>“What was it?”</p><p>Lance paused like he couldn’t remember. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, wringing his hands together. Keith fought the urge to reach out and still them.</p><p>“I’d rather not talk about it,” Lance replied after a moment.</p><p>“Lance,” Keith pressed, “Is it something with your family? School?”</p><p>But Lance shook his head, throat bobbing. “Not right now. Please.”</p><p>Keith opened his mouth to inquire further, but thought better of it. Lance never reacted well to prying, and the two of them had just barely gotten back on the same page. The last thing Keith wanted was to elicit more tears.</p><p>Instead, he settled for a complacent nod. Lance flashed him what he thought was a reassuring smile before letting his head rest against the wall again. He shut his eyes.</p><p>Keith pulled out his phone. It had dwindled to twenty-seven percent since he last checked, but he was sure Lance kept a spare charger somewhere. The screen lit up with a dozen notifications, most of which were from Shiro or his mom. The most recent, however, was from Pidge.</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>are you with Lance???</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>Keith</p><p>The texts were from a few hours ago, but Keith replied anyway.</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>unfortunately</p><p>Pidge, never one to be without her phone, replied promptly.</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>holy hell I thought he was messing with me</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>nope</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>what happened? He said u were pissed</p><p>Suppressing a sigh, Keith typed out a hurried explanation of everything that had happened since last night. He left out the part about Lance crying, because he was sure Lance didn’t want that information in Pidge’s hands.</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>yikes. So ur coming home after the car gets fixed?</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>I guess</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>ok, but what if u don’t</p><p>Keith frowned.</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>wdym?</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>like, what if you went with him?? It could be fun</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>I have work</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>I know for a fact that u have a million unused vacation days. Plus Coran adores you, he’d let you go</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>Pidge</p><p><strong>Dobby:</strong> Keith</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>no</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>is this abt what happened just before graduation</p><p>Keith’s fingers stilled. Was it? It wasn’t like he’d never fantasized about reconnecting with Lance in the three years they’d been apart, but there had always been something holding him back. He supposed the only thing that really made sense was how they left things back in high school.</p><p>Of course, now it had a little more to do with the fact that he’d basically been kidnapped. Lovingly, but still.</p><p><strong>Me: </strong>maybe</p><p><strong>Dobby:</strong> that was 3 years ago. He’s changed</p><p><strong>Me:</strong> how</p><p><strong>Dobby:</strong> just give him a chance, Keith</p><p><strong>Dobby: </strong>he might surprise u</p><p>Keith risked a glance up at Lance, who looked unfairly peaceful with his arms folded, half-asleep in his seat. It was definitely cooler in here than outside, but a sheen of sweat still clung to his skin. Even in rest his fingers were alive, pattering across the tops of his knees. They kept a beat that was uniquely their own.</p><p>Would it really be so bad, Keith wondered, to go with him? Lance was clearly going through something, and it would be kind of douchey of Keith to let him do this alone. And Pidge <em>did </em>mention all those vacation days he had yet to use up…</p><p>“How long are you planning to be gone?” he asked after a moment.</p><p>Lance’s pacific eyes fluttered open. Not bothering to lift his head, he inclined it in Keith’s direction. “Next Friday, at least.”</p><p>Keith whistled. “That’s a long time.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Are you going to make any stops?”</p><p>“Well, yeah, to sleep,” Lance thought for a moment. “But I also want to hit Vegas, and any ghost towns.”</p><p>Keith chuckled. He’d forgotten about Lance’s fascination with any and everything supernatural.</p><p>“Okay,” he nodded. “Aren’t you worried about Blue breaking down again?”</p><p>Lance laughed. “All the time. These guys say the repairs should hold up for a while though, so I think she’ll make it.”</p><p>“Fair enough, but what about—”</p><p>“Lance McClain?”</p><p>One of the mechanics stood over by the front desk. She held a greasy rag in one hand.</p><p>“Over here,” Lance raised a hand. “Is she good to go?”</p><p>The mechanic nodded. “You’re all set. Check under the hood the next time you stop to catch any problems, and give us a call if you need anything.”</p><p>“Okay, thank you,” Lance stood and gave her hand a firm shake.</p><p>***</p><p>Some paperwork and a hefty repair-fee later, Keith and Lance were back in Blue. They rumbled out of the garage and back out onto the street. Lance started in on a rant about one of his coworkers at the aquarium just as they pulled onto i-40.</p><p>By then, Keith had reached a decision.</p><p>“Lance?” He spoke up.</p><p>“And then he—yeah?” Lance cast him a furtive glance, abandoning the rest of whatever story he’d been telling.</p><p>Keith kept his eyes on the road. “I changed my mind.”</p><p>“…about what?”</p><p>“About going with you,” he cleared his throat. “I… it’s been a while since I saw the ocean, too.”</p><p>Lance didn’t say anything for the longest time. Blue ambled along just above the speed-limit, en route back to Keith’s house in New Mexico. Keith bit his lip in anticipation.</p><p>But then Lance smiled bright enough to snuff out the sun. He pulled the car into a swift, stomach-lurching U-turn that very nearly squeezed a shriek out of Keith, and suddenly they were heading in the opposite direction.</p><p>“You won’t regret it, buddy!” Lance declared, pumping his fist in the air with a hearty <em>whoop. </em>“Road trip!”</p><p>Keith, still reeling from Lance’s <em>Fast &amp; Furious </em>driving, could only muster a chuckle.</p><p>But in his chest, his heart was starting to beat whole again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In case you were wondering, kidnapping a friend is absolutely *not* this forgivable. Keith is a fucking idiot (and so is Lance).</p><p>-</p><p>Spanish Translations:<br/>Mierda: Shit<br/>Hijo de puta: Son of a bitch</p><p>Please let me know if any of these are incorrect/could be better! I don't know a lick of Spanish, and I want this to be as accurate as possible.</p><p>-</p><p>Song: Bags - Clairo</p><p>~DontTouchMySpaceBuns~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hard to Reach, Harder to Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lance is one cagey motherfucker, and Keith can't stand it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Mentions of general familial tension, bottling emotions, insecurity.</p>
<p>Please let me know PRONTO if I've missed anything!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Please, <em>god, </em>can you just roll up a window?”</p>
<p>“It’s hotter than Satan’s asshole in here, Keith, <em>no—”</em></p>
<p>When Keith agreed to this little adventure, he had naively assumed that he and Lance were done arguing.</p>
<p>He was wrong.</p>
<p>“Lance, my hair is going everywhere,” Keith hissed, trying to keep the wild strands from blowing in his face.</p>
<p>“Aw, is the wind bothering you, Keith?” Lance stuck out his bottom lip. “You gonna <em>cry?”</em></p>
<p>“No, but I am gonna beat the shit out of you if you don’t roll up the <em>fucking window.”</em></p>
<p>Lance pretended not to hear him. Keith threatened to jump out of the moving truck. Lance made a few predictable remarks about Keith’s mullet, and Keith smacked him across the center console.</p>
<p>It was just like old times.</p>
<p>Eventually, Keith won out. Sort of. Lance rolled each of the two windows on Keith’s side up halfway, which did absolutely nothing to help his situation. Keith just ended up pulling his hair back.</p>
<p>It should be noted, however, that they were only in this situation because Blue—good old, “trusty” Blue—did not have functioning AC, a fact Lance failed to mention before Keith signed onto this road trip from Hell. Keith just added it to the list of things he was mad about that day.</p>
<p>Still, it wasn’t all bad. Keith guilted Lance into partial control of the music and a permanent ban on the ABC game (because Keith was particularly not having <em>that</em>). Plus, the bickering was kind of fun. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed Lance’s specific brand of banter.</p>
<p>When Keith had called Coran earlier to tell him about the trip, Coran had been surprisingly okay with it. He’d gone on about how glad he was that Keith was finally taking a break. It wasn’t too odd for Keith to hear, considering how well they knew each other. Coran was the legal guardian of one of his good friends from high school.</p>
<p>Shiro, on the other hand, had been a little less understanding.</p>
<p><strong>Shiro: </strong>you barely know him</p>
<p><strong>Me:</strong> I’ve known him since before I got put on Accutane</p>
<p><strong>Shiro: </strong>but you haven’t known him for the past three years</p>
<p><strong>Me:</strong> I’ll be fine. It’s not like he’s dangerous</p>
<p><strong>Shiro:</strong> he broke your heart once, Keith</p>
<p><strong>Shiro:</strong> don’t let him do it again</p>
<p>Keith left him on read. Lance was currently telling him about Hunk’s culinary pursuits, which was a far more interesting topic.</p>
<p>“He’s working at this really fancy place right now,” Lance explained, “<em>Lion Dior, </em>or something? It’s French.”</p>
<p>“<em>Le Lion D’or,”</em> Keith nodded, “I’ve been there a few times.”</p>
<p>“Really? I thought you hated places like that.”</p>
<p>“Places like what?”</p>
<p>“Where they only put food in the middle of the plate and charge you extra to stick a leaf on it.”</p>
<p>Keith laughed. “I do, but Shiro likes it.”</p>
<p>“He would,” Lance nodded. “Man, I’ve been meaning to ask him to hook me up with Adam for a while now.”</p>
<p>Keith made a fantastic face.</p>
<p>“Not like that!” Lance laughed, waving his hands. “I meant, like, for Silvio. He’s been asking about astrophysics and stuff. I figured Adam could help him out.”</p>
<p>Keith visibly relaxed. “Oh, thank god. Yeah, no, I could let him know, just please never insinuate the desire to sleep with my brother-in-law ever again.”</p>
<p>“No desire here, bud. Trust me.”</p>
<p>And the way Lance said it was light enough, but left Keith feeling a little deflated. Lance was straight, and he never let anyone forget it.</p>
<p>Keith pulled out his phone again. He pressed the on button, but the screen stayed black. He pressed it again—nothing.</p>
<p><br/>
“Uh, Lance?” He frowned. “Do you have a charger?”</p>
<p>Lance gave Keith’s phone a cursory glance. “Not for android, sorry.”</p>
<p>“Shit.”</p>
<p>It was then that Keith fully realized just how unprepared he was for this trip. He’d left the house with nothing but the clothes on his back. Hell, he was wearing <em>Lance’s </em>shoes right now. How was he supposed to get through the rest of the week like this?</p>
<p>“Uh, we definitely need to pick up a few things, then,” Keith admitted, suppressing the sudden rush of panic. “I literally don’t have anything on me.”</p>
<p>“What do you—oh.” Lance’s eyes widened. “Shoot, man, I totally forgot. Can you pull up some directions for me?”</p>
<p>He handed Keith his phone. The home screen lit up with a few notifications, backed up by a generic sunset wallpaper. This surprised Keith; he’d always known Lance to set it as a girlfriend or family member.</p>
<p>But what really caught Keith’s attention was the text that sat, unopened, at the top of the list.</p>
<p><strong>Unknown: </strong>can we talk</p>
<p>And Keith wasn’t one to snoop, but… no, <em>no, </em>he was <em>not </em>going to go sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. That was none of his business.</p>
<p>Still… it was tempting.</p>
<p>He pulled up the directions like Lance asked him to. He let the phone rest in his lap and tried not to notice when it buzzed again a moment later.</p>
<p>But then it buzzed again, and again. He cast a furtive look over at Lance, who was busy navigating and humming along to the radio. He most assuredly couldn’t hear the vibrating, so Keith gave in and checked the new notifications.</p>
<p><strong>Mama: </strong>Mijo, are you home?</p>
<p><strong>Mama:</strong> hay un problema con el florista</p>
<p><strong>Mama: </strong>algo sobre el pago</p>
<p>Lance had tried to teach Keith Spanish back in high school, but he’d made the mistake of starting with all the swear words. After they ran out and started getting into technicalities and conjugations, Keith got too frustrated to continue. Unfortunately, this meant that Keith had no idea what Mama McClain was saying, and that his sad attempts at investigating were all for naught.</p>
<p>But, that first text… had Lance not told his mother where he was going?</p>
<p>“What do you need?”</p>
<p>Keith startled in his seat. He fumbled with the phone, finding his way back to the GPS before looking back up at Lance.</p>
<p>“What?” He breathed.</p>
<p>Lance raised an eyebrow. “I asked what you needed. From the store?”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Keith thought for a moment. “Uh, a charger. Toothpaste, toothbrush—”</p>
<p>“You can use my toothpaste.”</p>
<p>“Okay, but I still need shoes, and probably a change of clothes.”</p>
<p>“We can do that. Do you have money on you?”</p>
<p>“Uh—</p>
<p>“If not, I can pay. It’s the least I can do for dragging you out here.”</p>
<p>“No, no, it’s—” Keith double-checked beneath his phone case to make sure his card was still there. “I got it.”</p>
<p>“You keep that in your phone case?” Lance made a face. “What if you lose your phone?”</p>
<p>“I won’t.”</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t, but—”</p>
<p>“What happens if you can’t find it again? Then your phone <em>and </em>your card are gone forever.”</p>
<p>“I’d just call the bank.”</p>
<p>“With what <em>phone, </em>Keith?”</p>
<p>“Someone <em>else’s, </em>Lance.”</p>
<p>“But what if someone finds it and spends all your money?”</p>
<p>“Lance.”</p>
<p>“It’s a valid question!”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Once at Walmart, it took Keith approximately ten minutes to lose Lance in the maze of aisles. He couldn’t text him with a dead phone and he wasn’t too keen on searching for him, so he parked himself by the snacks and waited. They’d find each other eventually.</p>
<p>So far, they’d managed to collect the first few items on Keith’s list, but Lance had insisted against “abetting corporate greed” by buying any Walmart clothes. Instead, they planned to hit the Goodwill across the street—but that would only happen if Lance came back within the next century.</p>
<p>To occupy himself in the meantime, Keith had taken to browsing the snacks. This turned out to be a mistake, seeing as he hadn’t eaten since two o’clock that morning. It was only a matter of time before two bags of Cheetos and a tube of Pringles found their way into his arms. He wasn’t entirely inclined to care; his diet was well and truly fucked by that point, anyway.</p>
<p>By the time Lance did find him, the junk food had only multiplied. Keith struggled to hold onto all of it: the chips, the cookies, the expensive chocolate, and the six-pack of root-beer. Lance’s eyebrows shot up so far they nearly disappeared into his hairline.</p>
<p>“I leave for ten minutes, and you amass the Wonka factory?” he plucked the expensive chocolate from Keith’s arms. “We don’t need all that.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t had processed sugar for a year and a half,” Keith hissed, holding the rest of the goodies out of Lance’s reach. “Let me have this.”</p>
<p>Lances eyes narrowed. Then, quicker than lightning, his arm shot out and seized the bag of Cheetos. Keith yelped, twisting away from him and darting to the other side of the aisle. Lance came after him with grabby hands.</p>
<p>“Put it back!” He commanded.</p>
<p>“No!” Keith tried to spin out of his grasp a second time, but he’d all but forgotten that the shoes he was wearing were not his own. He stumbled, losing his grip on the snacks. They went flying, and Keith went falling.</p>
<p>Lance yelped for him, reaching, but it was too late. Keith collided with the tile, just barely able to avoid hitting his chin, but his knees came down hard. <em>That’s gonna leave a mark, </em>he thought distantly.</p>
<p>He lay there for a long moment, letting the weight of what had just happened pin him to the floor. He tried to convince himself that he hadn’t just done that—run from Lance like a fucking <em>child </em>and tripped over his own feet—but the pain in his knees served as a violent reminder to the contrary.</p>
<p>Just as he was about to roll himself down the aisle and directly in front of a moving cart, a burst of silvery, immoderate laughter sounded from above. The sound trickled down his neck like rainwater, then all the way down his spine. His entire body went flush.</p>
<p>“Ah, fuck, sorry—are you okay?” Lance wheezed, still laughing. Keith looked up, red in the face, to find Lance’s hand outstretched.</p>
<p>“This is all your fault,” Keith grumbled, unable to meet Lance’s eyes as he was helped to his feet.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah it is, oh my—you just—” Lance descended into another giggle-fit.</p>
<p>Keith wanted to be mad—wanted so desperately to hang onto that childish petulance—but it was only a matter of seconds before he found himself laughing, too.</p>
<p>Lance was just one of those people it was impossible to stay angry at.</p>
<p>Amidst the laughter, Keith realized that all the snacks were still on the floor. He stooped to collect them before Lance could catch his breath, thinking that, maybe, he could manage it without interference (he would have his Cheetos, <em>dammit).</em> Of course, Lance was quick to realize what was happening. He hurried to pick up whatever Keith didn’t, and ended up with the Pringles and root-beer.</p>
<p>Keith scowled at him. “I could call the cops, you know. Kidnapping is a second-degree felony.”</p>
<p>“With what phone?” Lance resurrected the line, maintaining eye-contact as he put the snacks back on the shelf.</p>
<p>“I’ll just tell an employee.”</p>
<p>“Because they’d believe that a sweet, charming young man such as myself would waste a perfectly good Thursday afternoon on an irritable little greaseball like you.”</p>
<p>“I can be very convincing.”</p>
<p>“Only one of us was in the high school drama club, Keith. It was not you.”</p>
<p>“Wh—hey!”</p>
<p>Lance made another attempt at Keith’s Cheetos. Keith swatted him away, holding them tight to his chest.</p>
<p>“Leave my Cheetos alone!” He protested. “You’re not the one paying for them!”</p>
<p>Lance rolled his eyes. “Fine, but don’t blame me when your cholesterol skyrockets.”</p>
<p>“You literally ate two whole burgers last night.”</p>
<p>“And I am nothing if not a blatant hypocrite,” Lance turned to head back down the aisle, beckoning for Keith to follow. “Come, Cheeto-fingers. Goodwill awaits!”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>After getting checked out, the boys deposited their items in Blue’s backseat before dashing across the street. They pushed open the doors to Goodwill, and Keith’s nose was immediately assaulted by Febreze. The place was relatively empty, save for a group of teenagers over by the appliances and an elderly couple browsing the books. Keith made a beeline for the men’s clothes towards the back, Lance in tow.</p>
<p>Upon arrival, they began sifting through the racks. Keith tried to ignore the grubby feeling that had crept up on him—the feeling and smell of dried sweat on his clothes—and grabbed the first few shirts in his size. He didn’t care how he looked, so long as he got out of what he was currently wearing <em>pronto.</em></p>
<p>Lance, on the other hand, didn’t seem terribly perturbed. He’d taken to digging through a different rack behind Keith, bobbing his head to the song playing overhead.</p>
<p>“So, what exactly are we looking for?” He asked.</p>
<p>Keith shrugged. “Jeans, a few t-shirts, a pair of shoes.”</p>
<p>“What about Vegas? A t-shirt’s not gonna cut it there. You’re gonna need trunks for the beach, too.”</p>
<p>“I’m not buying used swim trunks,” Keith protested, “but yeah, I guess I’ll need, like, a dress-shirt or something.”</p>
<p>“You could always just skinny dip.”</p>
<p>“Ah, no.”</p>
<p>“Suit yourself.” A pause. “Keith?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I have an idea.”</p>
<p>Keith raised an eyebrow. Lance’s most recent ideas—namely the kidnapping and skinny-dipping—weren’t anything to venerate.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he found himself saying.</p>
<p>“Let me pick your clothes.”</p>
<p>God, how—why did Keith even let him <em>speak?</em></p>
<p>“No way,” Keith shook his head vigorously. “Absolutely not.”</p>
<p>“What, you chicken?” Lance grinned.</p>
<p>“No, I just don’t trust you.”</p>
<p>“Keith!” Lance gasped. “I am your oldest friend!”</p>
<p>Keith just shrugged. “Sorry, but I’m not walking out of here in booty shorts.”</p>
<p>“Who said anything about booty shorts?” Lance folded his arms. “I promise, I’ll pick you something wearable.”</p>
<p>Keith thought for a moment. The idea wasn’t entirely outrageous, and it would relieve him of some responsibility… but he wasn’t about to let Lance have all the fun.</p>
<p>“Only if I get to pick yours,” Keith decided.</p>
<p>Lance raised an eyebrow. “I already have clothes.”</p>
<p>“If I have to endure this, so do you.”</p>
<p>“There’s nothing to endure! I have great taste, Keith.”</p>
<p>“And I don’t?”</p>
<p>“Frankly, no.”</p>
<p>“Coward.”</p>
<p>“Asshole.”</p>
<p>“Dipshit.”</p>
<p>“Candy-ass.”</p>
<p>
  <em>“Chicken.”</em>
</p>
<p>An insult surged halfway up Lance’s throat before dying there. His brow furrowed, jaw slack, as he racked his brain for anything to top “chicken”. It was pathetic, really; Keith had to try very hard to keep a straight face.</p>
<p>“I—no,” Lance responded finally, eloquently. “No, I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Then we’re doing this,” Keith declared, “but you have to wear whatever I pick for the rest of the trip.”</p>
<p>Lance started to protest again, but cut himself right off after spotting the challenge in Keith’s eyes. He set his jaw in a hard line.</p>
<p>“Fine,” he huffed, “meet back here in twenty.”</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>And then it was on. Lance made a beeline for the shoes, while Keith turned to the coat rack. He scanned for something awful—something so atrocious it would make Lance regret ever proposing the game in the first place.</p>
<p>Suddenly, his eyes caught something yellow at the end of the aisle. A grin crept across his lips.</p>
<p>Payback was in order.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“I’m not wearing this!”</p>
<p>Keith hid a smile behind one hand. He sat on one of the benches outside the dressing rooms, legs crossed. Lance was shouting at him from the stall.</p>
<p>“Rules are rules,” Keith replied, “let’s see it.”</p>
<p>“I hate you.”</p>
<p>Lance emerged a moment later. He wore a puffy yellow coat that went all the way down to his knees, effectively dwarfing his legs. He’d pulled the hood up and over his head in an attempt to hide.</p>
<p>“You’re a piss-colored Michelin man,” Keith snickered.</p>
<p>“And <em>you’re </em>an asshole,” Lance shot back, “I never should have trusted you.”</p>
<p>Keith grinned, wishing his phone was charged enough to take a picture. “I think you look great.”</p>
<p>“I don’t actually have to wear this, right?”</p>
<p>When Keith didn’t answer, Lance made an incredulous noise.</p>
<p>“Keith!” He began crawling out of the coat. “It’s a million degrees out there!”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t have to,” Keith assured him, laughing again. “But the look on your <em>face.”</em></p>
<p>Lance stopped mid-escape to level a nasty glare at him. He finished taking off the coat and tossed it at Keith.</p>
<p>“That’s not even the worst of it,” Keith promised.</p>
<p>Lance flipped him the bird before slamming the stall door.</p>
<p>Keith had to admit, this was kind of fun. He enjoyed romping around Goodwill, toying with the idea of putting Lance in full camo or a bucket hat. The vast majority of what he’d actually chosen wasn’t bad, but he couldn’t resist the coat.</p>
<p>A familiar buzzing noise reached Keith’s ears. He turned to find that Lance had left his phone on the bench beside him, the screen lit up with an incoming call. Keith was in the process of picking it up to bring to Lance when he saw who it was.</p>
<p>
  <strong>UNKNOWN (<em>calling)</em></strong>
</p>
<p>“Who are you?” Keith whispered.</p>
<p>For a split second, he thought about pressing the green button. He wondered if he’d hear a woman’s voice on the other end.</p>
<p>But then the stall door swung open, and Lance stepped back out.</p>
<p>“Keith?” He raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing with my phone?”</p>
<p>Keith cheeks flushed. “Oh, uh, it just started ringing.”</p>
<p>“Huh.”</p>
<p>Keith handed it over, feeling disproportionately guilty. Lance didn’t seem angry, though—not at Keith, anyway. His expression only soured after looking at the caller ID.</p>
<p>“Do you know who it is?” Keith asked.</p>
<p>Lance shook his head, still scowling.</p>
<p>“Probably a telemarketer,” he muttered, slipping the phone into his back pocket.</p>
<p>And that didn’t sit right with Keith. Lance was obviously lying; what didn’t he want him to know?</p>
<p>But then Lance did a spin in his new outfit, and Keith was forced to divert his attention.</p>
<p>“What do you think? Lance asked. The tight smile on his lips demanded a superficial reaction.</p>
<p>Keith gave it to him. “Looks good.”</p>
<p>And he did. Keith had outfitted him in a light blue V-neck and dark-wash jeans that hugged him in all the right places. They were a little short, but he knew Lance liked to cuff his pants anyway.</p>
<p>“It’s definitely better than the coat,” Lance amended. He tugged at the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling his nose at a small brown stain near the hem. “What is that?”</p>
<p>“Coffee, probably,” Keith shrugged.</p>
<p>“Yeah, or shit,” Lance narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the spot like it might disappear if he stared at it hard enough. “Why’d you get me a shit-shirt, Keith?”</p>
<p>Keith rolled his eyes. “It’s not shit.”</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“How do <em>you </em>know?”</p>
<p>“I’m not wearing a shit-shirt.”</p>
<p>Lance disappeared back into the dressing room. Keith rolled his eyes, but there was a complacent smile on his face. He hadn’t forgotten what a drama queen Lance could be—just talked himself into believing he’d grown out of it. That most definitely was not the case.</p>
<p>Lance insisted on showing Keith the rest of the outfits, most of which turned out surprisingly well. Not that it was hard to shop for Lance—bronze Adonis that he was—but Keith was surprised at how expertly he’d nailed the sizing without asking. He supposed he just… knew Lance that well.</p>
<p>Lance came out in the last combo: the jeans from the first outfit, and a tank-top that Keith couldn’t resist snagging. It read, “I’M WITH STUPID” with an arrow that pointed up at Lance’s face.</p>
<p>“Hilarious, Keith,” Lance deadpanned.</p>
<p>Keith smiled sweetly. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”</p>
<p>“I most certainly do not.”</p>
<p>“You could make such an outfit with that. Oh, and the <em>coat—”</em></p>
<p>“I will leave your ass on the side of the road.”</p>
<p>“It was just a suggestion.”</p>
<p>Lance rolled his eyes. He returned to the stall, changed back into his regular clothes, and came back out.</p>
<p>“Okay, your turn,” He thrust a pile of fabric into Keith’s arms, a wicked grin on his lips. “Have fun.”</p>
<p>Keith didn’t think he would.</p>
<p>Still, he took the clothes Lance had picked for him and disappeared into the dressing room. He shut the door behind him, feeling a bit queasy. He’d gone easy on Lance, and he was fairly certain the favor would not be returned.</p>
<p>“Rules are rules,” Lance mimicked, and Keith bit back something vile.</p>
<p>He began sifting through the clothes. Upon first glance, they seemed pretty… normal. Keith frowned, wondering what the catch was.</p>
<p>But no—his first outfit really was that simple: some cotton shorts, a gray tank-top, and a thin, brown belt. The buckle was a little gaudy, but the shirt hem fell low enough to eliminate the issue.</p>
<p>After doing his own inspection, he stepped back out for Lance’s.</p>
<p>“Lookin’ good, buddy!” Lance’s grin was a little too wide.</p>
<p>Keith frowned. “This feels like a trap.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Am I missing something? Thigh high stockings? Galoshes?”</p>
<p>“Oh!”</p>
<p>Lance’s grin turned devilish, and it became immediately apparent that he’d been waiting for that very question. He stood and rushed for the cart.</p>
<p>“You’re going to love this,” Lance promised.</p>
<p>“I don’t think I will.”</p>
<p>“Oh, ye of so little faith.”</p>
<p>Lance whirled back around and, before Keith could react, hurled something at him. Keith yelped, fumbling with the thing before getting a proper hold on it. After realizing what it was, Keith paled a whole shade.</p>
<p>“Lance,” he looked up at Lance with pleading eyes. “No.”</p>
<p>Lance floated back over to the bench. “Lance, <em>yes.”</em></p>
<p>“These are not going on my feet.”</p>
<p>“That’s what you said about my running shoes.”</p>
<p>“Those were Nikes!”</p>
<p>And these were bright red <em>crocs.</em></p>
<p>“Come on,” Lance still had that dumb grin on his face. “They’ll set off the gray real nice.”</p>
<p>“They’re setting <em>me </em>off right now,” Keith muttered, eyeing the clunky, croslite excuses for footwear in his hands. “I don’t think I’m physically capable of putting them on.”</p>
<p>“Want me to do it for you?” Lance asked. “Little Cinderella moment?”</p>
<p>“Fuck off.”</p>
<p>“Suit yourself.”</p>
<p>And Keith did, because he wasn’t a fucking coward. He slipped the abhorred things on over his socks, doing his damndest to ignore Lance’s snickers. His feet loathed the feeling of them. <em>Foot shells, </em>his brain supplied, unhelpfully.</p>
<p>But after getting them on, he had to admit that they weren’t… uncomfortable. Ugly, yes, but he could stand to walk.</p>
<p>Lance made a snide comment about how they’d go great with the rest of his outfits, too—to which Keith responded with an indignant huff. They argued for a whole two minutes over the rules of the game. Lance insisted that Keith wear the crocs for the rest of the trip, while Keith argued that he hadn’t made Lance wear that god-awful coat and should be compensated for such chivalry. They eventually reached a compromise (Keith was beginning to detect a theme): Keith would wear the crocs for four days out of their week-long trip. Lance went off to find Keith a more respectable pair of shoes, and Keith returned to the stall to don his next outfit.</p>
<p>Now, he’d never admit it, but Lance actually <em>did </em>have good taste, especially when it came to formalwear. Keith held up the maroon button-down he’d chosen for him, along with a fitted pair of black slacks. In putting them on, he noticed a rip along the armpit of the shirt, but that wouldn’t be too hard to fix with a few quick stitches. That aside, it fit quite well.</p>
<p>He was in the process of pulling on the slacks when he heard Lance’s voice outside. It was hushed, urgent. Keith paused for a moment, pressing his ear to the door, but he couldn’t make out any words.</p>
<p>After getting fully dressed, he left the stall quietly. He spotted Lance a few feet away, back to the dressing rooms. He was hunched a bit, with his phone pressed to one ear. His arms were rigid.</p>
<p>“—don’t have a goddamned thing to say to you,” he snarled, “so stop fucking calling.”</p>
<p>He paused for a moment, listening. His free hand curled and uncurled into a fist at his side, making the tendons in his forearm strain. The tattoos there rippled like water.</p>
<p>“No, no!” He made a frustrated noise. “No, you don’t—<em>god, </em>I can’t—just leave me alone!”</p>
<p>He yanked the phone away from his ear. He pressed a button—most definitely the red one—before shoving it back in his pocket. He covered his eyes with his hands, and for a moment he just… was. Keith was witnessing something he wasn’t meant to see—that much he knew—but there was something riveting about watching the boy who never slowed down stand so still. His stasis had always been telling.</p>
<p>“Lance?” Keith asked, quietly. He approached with light feet.</p>
<p>Lance startled from his quiescence, whirling on Keith. His lake-blue eyes were wide, and maybe even a little damp. It was hard to tell in this light.</p>
<p>“Is everything alright?” Keith frowned.</p>
<p>Lance opened his mouth to respond, but fell short after getting a good look at Keith. His gaze crawled up first, then down. It lingered on the two buttons undone at Keith’s chest before he managed to look him in the eye.</p>
<p>“You look hot,” he said simply.</p>
<p>And god, <em>fuck</em>—that wasn’t fair.</p>
<p>Keith cleared his throat. “You didn’t answer the question.”</p>
<p>“And you look hot,” Lance shrugged. “Your point?”</p>
<p>“You sounded really upset.”</p>
<p>“Maybe I am. Here are your shoes.”</p>
<p>He thrust two pairs at Keith—some chucks, and a pair of dark dress shoes. Keith took them in his arms, but barely spared them a glance.</p>
<p>“Lance—”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it.” Lance brushed past him.</p>
<p>Keith pursed his lips.</p>
<p>He went on to model the rest of the outfits for him: some dumb t-shirts and several pairs of shorts (which Keith was, admittedly, a little mad about). He tried to ask about the phone call a few more times, but Lance always waved him off.</p>
<p>After the last outfit, Keith had to take a moment to collect himself in the stall. He let his forehead rest against the divider, breathing deep.</p>
<p>Lance had always been guarded. Not like Keith, who decidedly shot down any questions he didn’t want to answer, but like a Grecian actor, who wore his masks like a second skin. He’d grown up in a big family, where nothing was private. That, coupled with his complex feelings of inadequacy, made him cagey as fuck. He’d once told Keith that he was desperate to have something—<em>anything—</em>that was just his. Unfortunately, that often extended to his innermost thoughts and feelings. Keith had been too emotionally stunted his junior year to offer much reassurance, but the admittance had stuck.</p>
<p>He was just as unprepared to deal with it now. In the past few years, he’d done some serious work on himself. He’d gone to therapy, got himself a nice, stable job. Hell, he was renting a house right now—that was serious business at his age. And yet… there was only so much effort he could put forth. He’d offered Lance a shoulder to cry on, let him know that he could talk about anything he needed.</p>
<p>But Keith had to ask himself if he was willing to listen. He’d spent the better part of three years resenting Lance for how things ended back in high school, and the only reason Keith hadn’t brought it up yet was because Lance was clearly dealing with something else. He still cared enough about him to let him deal with one thing at a time.</p>
<p>Could Keith be what he needed right now? Did he <em>want </em>to be what he needed right now?</p>
<p>Keith sighed, straightening. His head was beginning to hurt.</p>
<p>He had to remind himself that it was only the first day. Lance had seven more to open up, and Keith had just as much time to untangle the knot of emotions in his chest.</p>
<p><em>Patience yields focus, </em>he thought, like a mantra.</p>
<p>Shiro would be proud.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>
  <em>“Sorry I’m late.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Lance plopped down in the grass next to Keith, cheeks rosy and hair tousled. Come summertime, he always drove with the windows down.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“That’s fine,” Keith frowned. “Is everything okay?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Lance made a frustrated noise. He shoved a brown paper bag at Keith, who received it tentatively.</em>
</p>
<p><em>“So I’m on my way to McDonald's, right?” Lance began. “And I have Rachel and Luis in the car because I’m supposed to drop them home after. And everything is fine—it’s good, it’s dandy—but then Rachel jumps in while I’m ordering and asks for, like, a whole-ass meal. I’m like, ‘okay, that’s cool, she can just pay me back later’, but then we get to the window and she just takes her food and lets me pay. And I don’t say anything yet, because maybe she’ll pay me back when we get home, but as we’re pulling out she goes, ‘thanks for the grub, baby bro’, and I just—what? No, I didn’t—anyway, now we’re fighting because I ‘never do anything for her’ and I’m ‘bitching about nothing’, and Luis is just sitting there the whole time on his phone, being an </em>asshole,<em> and when we get back to the house Rachel starts whining again and I have to remind her that I’m saving for college and that my </em>entire fucking life isn’t about her<em> and I—it was just—”</em></p>
<p>
  <em>He groaned, burying his face in his hands. Keith patted his back awkwardly, a little stunned. He hadn’t expected such a visceral response to his question.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I… I’m sorry?” Keith tried.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Nah, it’s good,” Lance sighed, looking up again. “Happens all the time. Anyway, we should get started. I’ve got some dinner ideas—”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Where’s yours?” Keith interrupted.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“What?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Your food. Did you get any for yourself?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Lance raised an eyebrow. “Uh, no? I ate earlier.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“So you throw a fit about buying for Rachel, but not for me?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s different with friends,” Lance rolled his eyes. “I actually like you guys.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“And you don’t like your family?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I—” Lance’s voice faltered. “That’s not what I meant.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Keith turned to face him more completely. Lance’s eyes had taken on the caramel sky, like the sun on water. Deceptively warm.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Then what did you mean?” Keith asked.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I just…” Lance’s fingers curled into the grass at his feet. “I love them. Obviously I love them, but… sometimes it gets hard to be around them. I’m the youngest, so I’ve never not had siblings. I’ve always had to share and give and compromise. And that’s fine—I’m used to it—but it feels like I’m never just my own person. I always have to include my sister, or Luis’s kids. If I ever go somewhere I have to give someone else a ride.” He sighed again. “I guess I just… want something.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“…Want something?”</em>
</p>
<p><em>“Yeah. Something that’s </em>just <em>mine, not Rachel’s, or Nadia’s, or Silvio’s. Something I don’t have to share.”</em></p>
<p>
  <em>And that made sense to Keith. He’d grown up in the foster system. He’d lived with every type of family, including the incredibly invasive type. He knew what it was like to hold onto the things you loved so tight it bruised, even though they were always taken sooner or later.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It didn’t take him long to realize that it was a preventable situation. If he didn’t get attached—if he pushed everyone away—he’d never have to miss them. You couldn’t mourn a love you never knew.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But Lance wasn’t like that. He still gave, no matter how much he lost. He left pieces of himself everywhere—even in the hands of strangers, or those who’d do him harm.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Keith wanted to tell him he was allowed to keep some. He didn’t have to set himself on fire to keep others warm.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But he also knew that burning was inevitable, and that it was better to do it on your own terms.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Do you have something, Keith?” Lance asked softly.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Keith’s eyes found Lance almost involuntarily, backlit by the darkening sky. The stars were starting to come out—in his eyes, too—freckles in the blue. His skin was rich and gold.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“No,” Keith replied.</em>
</p>
<p>But I want it.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>That night, lying on opposite sides of the room in a shoddy, backwater motel, Lance spoke up.</p>
<p>“Hey, Keith?”</p>
<p>Keith opened one eye. “What?”</p>
<p>“Did you ever find that something?”</p>
<p>It took Keith a moment to remember what he was talking about. When he did, the memory hit him suddenly, and all at once.</p>
<p>“I…” he frowned.</p>
<p> Lance was lying on his side in the bed to Keith’s left, watching him. The neon light of the vacancy sign shone through the thin curtains, tracing him in red.</p>
<p>“I’m working on it,” Keith answered after a few seconds.</p>
<p>“Oh.”</p>
<p>Lance nodded, slowly turning to lie on his back. The light caught his cheeks and turned them rosy. His hands, for once, were still.</p>
<p>“Did you?” Keith asked.</p>
<p>Lance was silent for a long while. His chest rose and fell, far too evenly for someone who’d just been asked such a big question. Keith wondered if he had to work at it—if his heartbeat was just as steady.</p>
<p>“I think I did,” Lance said finally, “a long time ago.”</p>
<p>Keith nodded.</p>
<p>“But I lost it.”</p>
<p>It was a quiet addition—just barely above a whisper. Keith’s blood ran thick.</p>
<p>“You’ll find it again,” he assured him.</p>
<p>Lance huffed a laugh.</p>
<p>“Yeah. Here’s to hoping.” A pause. “Goodnight, Keith.”</p>
<p>“Goodnight, Lance.”</p>
<p>When Keith finally fell asleep, he dreamed in shades of gold and blue.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I was stuck on this chapter for three whole days before god came to me and said "put that fucker in crocs" and jfc I didn't expect it to work but it sure fucking did because I pulled the rest of this out of my ass in an afternoon. Homeboy works in mysterious ways.</p>
<p>Sorry this took forever to get up! I was seriously struggling with the flow in this chapter and I didn't want to post it until it was good, because you guys deserve nice things. I've started having a good friend of mine look through and catch any mistakes, so hopefully things only get smoother from here on out. I've also decided to change my chapter titles to song lyrics that kinda fit with the chapter. I'll always cite the songs in the end notes, so be sure to check them out!</p>
<p>As far as consistency goes, I'm not going to say I'll update at a specific time because I know it will never fucking happen. I've got work and a couple of other projects going on, but I really like how this fic is turning out so far so please trust that I'm doing my best.</p>
<p>I think this is going to end up being around 13 chapters, epilogue included?? I've outlined that much, but it's subject to change.</p>
<p>Your comments are my life. My love. The air I breathe. Keep 'em coming, I'd love to hear any thoughts or theories you guys might have.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Spanish Translations:<br/>Hay un problema con el florista: There's a problem with the florist<br/>Algo sobre el pago: Something about the payment</p>
<p>Please let me know if any of these are incorrect/could be better! I don't know a lick of Spanish, and I want this to be as accurate as possible.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Song: Love; Not Wrong (Brave) - EDEN</p>
<p>~DontTouchMySpaceBuns~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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